


Oh, God.

by horror_business



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Mentions Of Infidelity, PWP, Porn Without Plot, takes place somewhere between 5x03 and 5x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 09:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10896174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horror_business/pseuds/horror_business
Summary: There is a party at the Alibi. Ian doesn’t remember what it is for. He doesn’t remember who is throwing it or what the fuck they are celebrating, if they are even celebrating anything at all. There are only two things he knows for sure. One of those things is that he is pleasantly buzzed, his face warm and sweaty as he sips on his free beer.The second thing he knows is that he is horny as all fuck and he can’t keep his fucking eyes off of Mickey.





	Oh, God.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anomalously](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomalously/gifts).



> For you, Britt! Because you're always super supportive and know the right things to say to boost my confidence and get my ass in gear. ILY! ♥
> 
> This was just supposed to be porn.....but it got angsty towards the end because I'm a demon. Oops.

There is a party at the Alibi.  
  
Ian doesn’t remember what it is for. He doesn’t remember who is throwing it or what the fuck they are celebrating, if they are even celebrating anything at all.  
  
There are only two things he knows for sure. One of those things is that he is pleasantly buzzed, his face warm and sweaty as he sips on his free beer.  
  
The second thing he knows is that he is horny as all fuck and he can’t keep his fucking eyes off of Mickey. Every time he tries to look away his eyes pull right back to him. Like they are fucking magnets. Resist the pull all you want, but in the end it doesn’t fucking matter, it’s too strong, and who is Ian to deny it?  
  
It’s hot. It’s the middle of fucking July and the Alibi doesn’t have air conditioning. They have fans. Shitty plastic fans that push the stifling hot and sticky air around the shitty bar and make everything so much worse. Mickey is sweating, Ian can see if from here. Can see the skin on his boyfriend’s neck glistening, slick and inviting, accentuating the muscles and if Ian could just get his fucking _mouth_ on it. Christ.  
  
What is Mickey drinking? Beer? No, not beer. He has a medium sized glass, something dark with a few ice cubes. What does his fucking mouth taste like? What flavor is lingering on his tongue? On his fucking lips? Are his hands cold from the glass? Or hot and clammy from the heat? What would they feel like pushing against Ian’s skin? Grabbing onto his hair? Wrapping around his dick?  
  
Fuck.  
  
Mickey’s leaning back against the bar, his shirt is dark blue and stretched tight across his chest, the sleeves cut off and the frays in the fabric sticking to the wet skin of his shoulders. He’s damp in the armpits. Sweaty as all hell. Mickey never wears shorts, always wears pants. Always fucking pants. He probably smells so good. Musky. _Mickey._  
  
What’s the shit Lip told Debbie once? About pheromones? About being attracted to the way people smell? Ian thinks he can fucking smell Mickey from here, his scent crawling up his nose and settling into his dick. Comforting. Familiar. _Sexy_.  
  
Ian licks his lips, tasting his own salty sweat. It tastes wrong. It’s not the taste he wants. Feels bitter and awkward on his tongue. He takes a swig of his beer to wash it out. Get it the fuck out.  
  
Mickey laughs. His smile stretching wide as he looks away from whoever the fuck he is talking to. His eyes snap to Ian’s immediately, didn’t even have to search. Magnets. Motherfucking magnets.  
  
Mickey’s eyes go from bright and lively to dark and heated in an instant. Can probably feel Ian’s need like electric waves. Pulsing. Pulsing. Mickey smirks, bites the corner of his bottom lip and inches his eyebrows up a bit. Looking at Ian like _yeah_?  
  
Because fuck, _yeah_. It’s obvious Ian wants him. He wants him on him. Over him. Fucking _inside_ of him. He wants Mickey everywhere, taking what is his, taking what Ian willingly gives. Ian wants Mickey to fucking _own_ him. Claim him. It’s not often Ian wants _this_ , but the need for it is clawing at his skin.  
  
Mickey’s eyes trail down Ian’s body; admiring, _wanting_. And Ian can feel the heat from across the room, can feel Mickey’s gaze burning into his skin; blistering, stinging.  
  
Mickey knows. Mickey fucking _knows_.  
  
Ian groans out loud. Literally fucking groans when Mickey’s tongue pokes out and licks his bottom lip, raises the glass to take a sip. It should be Ian be resting against those lips. It should be Ian Mickey is fucking tasting right now.  
  
Mickey keeps fucking drinking, chugging his whole fucking glass without taking his eyes off of Ian. Some of that amber liquid leaks out the corners of Mickey’s mouth, dribbling down his chin and neck, darkening his shirt, getting Mickey fucking _sticky_. Ian can taste it in his mouth. Sees himself lapping at Mickey’s neck and tasting the salt from his sweat and sweetness from the alcohol in the most intoxicating cocktail there is.  
  
Mickey raises his hand, summons Ian with three quick jerks of his fingers. _Come and fucking get it_.  
  
Ian almost snaps the pool cue he forgot he was holding in his fist. His whole body clenches up in anticipation. Nostrils flare. He drops the cue, steps away from the table, vaguely hears Lip yelling behind him as he moves towards the bar. Everything is too quiet and too loud at the same time. His ears are ringing, his body fucking vibrating. Laser locked on target, he bumps into people. Stumbles over his own damn feet in his stalk, stormy blue on fiery green.  
  
Mickey slams his empty glass onto the bar, licks his lips as he lets out a relieved _ahhh_. Ian hears it, can hear that small fucking noise from where he is. There is no one else in this room, there is only Mickey. Even as Ian pushes through people he only fucking sees Mickey. Surprised his legs are even working. He feels fucking weak.  
  
Suddenly he’s there. He’s right fucking there in Mickey’s face, his fingers curling around the edge of the bar to lock Mickey in place. No escape. No fucking running. Ian pushes flush against him, sighing audibly as they rest chest to chest. Ian’s heart thumping against Mickey.  
  
Ian is rock fucking hard already. Straining in his boxers, probably showing through his jeans. Can’t stop himself from rolling his hips against Mickey right in the middle of this crowded fucking bar, shaking with the ache.  
  
Mickey doesn’t stop him, either.  
  
“We need to leave. Right fucking now,” Ian says. Did he say that? Fuck, didn’t even sound like himself. Deep and husky. Wanting and desperate.  
  
Mickey laughs. Honest to God fucking laughs in Ian’s face. “Fuckin’ riled up, huh?” he says.  
  
Riled up is the understatement of the century. Ian can’t help himself, he really fucking can’t. He’s waited long enough. He goes in for Mickey’s neck, whining as soon as he tastes that fucking taste he’s been craving, that salty sweetness, that smacking stickiness. He rolls his hips against Mickey again as he gives him a fucking hickey right fucking here, right fucking now, in _this_ fucking bar. The Alibi Room is fucking right.  
  
He licks up Mickey’s neck. A shiver runs up Mickey’s spine, goosebumps popping up along his flushed skin. Ian pulls Mickey’s earlobe into his mouth, nibbles, sucks. “I _need_ you,” he growls into Mickey’s ear.  
  
“Where?” Mickey whispers, his breath hot on Ian’s skin, his words ringing loud through Ian’s mind.  
  
Ian groans and takes one hand off the bar to grab onto Mickey’s ass, grips hard. Harder. “Home,” he says, stares straight into Mickey’s eyes.  
  
“Too far,” Mickey responds, “bathroom?”  
  
Ian shakes his head, whines, “too many people.”  
  
“Alley,” Mickey supplies in a second. They’ve fucked in worse places. But not for this, not for what Ian wants. Mickey likes getting fucked in general; he doesn’t care where, when or fucking how. Got lube and some solitude? Mickey is ready to fucking go. But Ian is a diva, especially when it comes to _this_ , and he doesn’t want Mickey’s dick up his ass while they stand in some seedy alley.  
  
But he  _definitely_ wants Mickey’s dick up his ass. His nice thick, hefty, veiny fucking dick. Ian’s mouth waters. Hungry. Fucking _starving_.  
  
“Upstairs,” Ian hears a foreign voice right before something slaps down on the bar behind them. It’s Kev. Kev throwing some keys down on the bartop while looking at Ian with a wink and smirk. The Rub-N-Tug. All the shit is still up there, they never cleared it out.  
  
Fuck. _Yes_.  
  
Ian grabs the keys in one hand and Mickey’s hand in the other, pulling his boyfriend away from the bar and through the crowd of people, over towards the stairs near the pool tables. Lip is glaring. Ian doesn’t fucking care.  
  
They get halfway up the stairs when Ian feels Mickey jerk to a stop. He turns around, his questioning whine already sitting in his throat. But Mickey is pushing him into the wall, the banister cutting into his back as Mickey comes to stand on the same step as Ian and devours his fucking mouth.  
  
And Ian is moaning. Moaning fucking load, mingling with the muffled music from the other side of the wall. He fists his hand into Mickey’s shirt, returning the heated kiss in kind, pushing his tongue into Mickey’s waiting mouth. And oh God, is it fucking good. Slick. Strong. Sinful.  
  
Mickey’s hands move furiously on Ian’s belt, slippery from sweat, shaky from need. Ian pushes Mickey back hard, so hard Mickey slams into the other wall, bouncing forward a bit from the force of it. Mickey’s eyes are dark, fucking predatory, burning into Ian’s back as Ian stomps up the steps, fumbling with the keys in his hand.  
  
This keychain has every fucking key in the world on it, Ian is sure. And Mickey is on him again, resting his hands on either side of the door frame, trapping Ian against the door, solid and fucking hot. He licks at the back of Ian’s neck, kisses down the side, sucks on the skin and Ian can’t fucking _focus_. Did he already try this key? They all look the fucking same, what the fuck.  
  
His hands shake. The keys jingle in his fingers. And Mickey just pushes closer. Closer. _Christ_. His hard cock is right there, right where Ian fucking wants it minus all these damn clothes and _a lot_ fucking deeper.  
  
Mickey places a hand against the bulge in Ian’s jeans, rubs and presses, rubs and presses, and Ian’s fucking knees almost give out. Mickey chuckles behind him; Ian can hear the smirk on his face, can feel the moist laugh on his neck.  
  
Ian drops the keys. Curses under his breath. Curses louder when Mickey drags his teeth down the side of his neck, rolls his hips against Ian’s ass and starts to suck on the back of his neck. His hand is at Ian’s belt again and _fuck_ , he yanks open the buckle, shoves his hand into his pants and wraps his fist around Ian’s dick.  
  
Hot. Fucking sweaty.  
  
Ian shivers. Allows himself to close his eyes. Allows himself to slow down and relish in the soft bites and breathy exhales. Allows himself to bask in Mickey’s need, to bask in _Mickey_. These days it feels like they’re moving a thousand miles a second (especially Ian, especially these days, what the _fuck_ is wrong with him?) so it’s nice to soak it all up, to just stop and fucking appreciate this for a fucking second.  
  
Because Mickey’s tongue is hot and insistent on the back of his neck. Because Mickey’s hands are demanding and bruising on his skin. Because Mickey is so _fucking_ sexy. Confident. Dominant.  
  
Ian _needs_ him.  
  
He needs the keys first. He needs to bend down and pick up the fucking keys but he can’t move. He trembles. Oh, God. And Mickey starts to move his hand, slow and slick up Ian’s dick and Ian can’t fucking breathe.  
  
Mickey huffs a rough laugh against Ian’s burning skin. “Yeah, that’s fuckin’ right. Fuckin’ achin’ for it,” Mickey states. It’s not a question, it’s a fucking _fact_. Fuck, is his voice always that gravelly?  
  
Ian whines, whines so loud. “I need it,” he says, his voice shaking. _He’s_ shaking.  
  
“Need what?” Mickey asks. All fucking dark and breathy and Ian is immediately spinning around in the tight space, dropping down to sit his ass on the top step, reaching for Mickey’s belt, fingers trembling as he pulls at the buckle, pulls and pulls until the leather slithers out of Mickey’s belt loops and clatters down near his feet.  
  
He’ll fucking show him what.  
  
Ian’s frantic. Pulls roughly at the button and zipper, yanks Mickey’s pants and boxers halfway down his thighs, just enough to see it. See it thick and fucking pink and hard and Ian licks his lips, shoves his face into Mickey’s crotch, breaths deep. Musky. _Mickey._  
  
Mickey’s hand runs through his hair, pulls onto the red strands as he groans and then Ian’s sucking at his skin, the skin right next to his fucking balls before he licks up Mickey’s dick. Sucks on the tip. He tastes so good, _so_ fucking good. Ian’s eyes roll back into his head as he fucking moans.  
  
Mickey pulls Ian’s head back, the tip slipping away from his mouth. Mickey moves his other hand from the wall, reaches down to Ian’s wet mouth, rubs his fingers against his bottom lip. Mickey is staring directly into Ian’s eyes, his breathing already fucked. He yanks Ian’s head back, his thumb keeping Ian’s mouth wide the fuck open.    
  
Mickey’s hand leaves Ian’s face, wraps around the base of his own dick, slides up and down, up and down. God, that fucking dick. Ian wants it down his throat. Sticks his fucking tongue out.  
  
“Keep that mouth open,” Mickey demands, deep. So deep. He guides his dick to Ian’s mouth, fingers curling into his hair harder as he just fucking drags his dick across Ian’s lips. Dips in. Pulls out. Dips back in. Dragging. Dragging. Ian can’t move, he’s tried, his scalp stinging as Mickey held steadfast. He can taste Mickey lingering on his tongue, can smell him on his lips, can feel him on his skin.  
  
“Fuckin’ suck,” he says, demanding and sinister, as he loosens his hold on Ian’s hair the tiniest amount. Just enough. Just enough so Ian can move forward and swallow him down.  
  
Ian moans. Mickey fucking moans. And Ian keeps fucking sucking. Licks. Swallows. Moans again. Moves his mouth up and down Mickey’s hot fucking dick and he can’t get enough. Mickey sits on his tongue; heavy, delicious. Stretches his jaw wide. Pokes against his throat.  
  
And then Mickey digs his fingers into Ian’s hair again, his nails scratching at his scalp, holds him in place as he starts to fuck Ian’s mouth, grunts with each push forward. Ian’s mouth waters some more, stares up at Mickey with heavy lidded eyes as he reaches for his ass, pushes Mickey in deeper. Deeper.  
  
_Give it to me._  
  
“You want the whole thing?” Mickey asks, his voice fucking wrecked and playful. Ian can only look up at him with pleading eyes, push Mickey into his mouth again. Mickey laughs, rests his forearm against the door jamb, crowds Ian even closer to the locked fucking door.  
  
Mickey pushes down on Ian’s head. Pushes and pushes until he’s resting down Ian’s throat and Ian’s nose is getting tickled by Mickey’s fucking pubes. He breathes in. _God_ , that fucking smell.  
  
And Mickey is sighing, sighs loud as he pulls Ian back, pushes him forward again, uses Ian as his own fucking sex toy with real life suction and wanton whines. Ian’s jaw fucking aches. Aches in the best way as he grips Mickey’s ass and pushes him in deeper again. Swallows. Mickey hisses, fucks into Ian’s mouth faster, hips snapping forward. Ian’s scalp fucking stings. Stings so good.  
  
Mickey pulls him away, spit thick and dripping down Ian’s chin, shining on Mickey’s dick. “Wanna finish me off like this?” he asks.  
  
Ian shakes his head no. Shakes his head fast as he goes back in for more, wraps his lips around Mickey again. Sucks at the tip, licks at the slit, groans at the taste. Ian knows _exactly_ where Mickey is gonna finish and it ain’t gonna be in his fucking mouth.  
  
Mickey throws his head back, fucks into Ian’s mouth a few more times before he groans out, “gimme the fuckin’ keys.”  
  
And Ian’s fingers scrabble blindly on the floor, slide around until he feels the cool metal poke into his fingers. He grabs the key ring and holds it up for Mickey to take from his hand, swallows around him again.  
  
Mickey grabs the keys, knows immediately what fucking key it is and jams it into the lock, clicking it open. He leaves the door closed, pulls Ian off his dick, pulls Ian up, pulls Ian into a wild kiss. Pulls and pulls and pulls.  
  
They step through the door, slam it shut behind them and suddenly the world fucking stops. It’s just Ian and Mickey. The only thing Ian can hear is Mickey’s breaths and sighs, can feel the need pulsing through his body. Pulsing. Pulsing. Mickey didn’t even pull his fucking pants up, his dick still hanging out, bobbing around with each step and Ian can’t stop staring. He fucking _wants_ it.  
  
They keep the lights off, hands frantic as they step towards the twin bed pushed up against the wall underneath the window. There’s sheets and a pillow on the bed. How old are those fucking sheets? Are they clean? Ian doesn’t fucking care because their naked and Mickey is pushing him down onto the mattress, springs squeaking.  
  
The window is open, the bright yellow streetlight buzzing outside. Buzz, buzz. Is that the light or Ian’s skin? Ian’s mind? His mind is always fucking buzzing. It’s so loud. So fucking loud.  
  
But it all seems to go quiet when Mickey lays on him, places his lips on his. Slows it down, slows everything down. Mickey does that. Mickey’s the _only_ one who does that.  
  
Oh, God, the air is so fucking hot and thick. Suffocating. The air is suffocating up here. But Ian can breathe just fine, can breathe just fine with Mickey’s lips on his.  
  
They’re sweaty, they’re so fucking sweaty and their skin sticks together with every new movement. Ian runs his hands up Mickey’s back, grabs onto his hair and neck, wraps his leg around Mickey’s waist. And Mickey fucking groans, groans loud into Ian’s mouth when their dicks rub together. Slick, so fucking slick and good.  
  
Mickey moves on to his neck, sucks, Sucks harder and Ian’s thoughts about _work_ and _don’t mark me_ die before they even fully form, fizzling out like expired firecrackers. He’s _only_ Mickey’s tonight. Only Mickey’s. He stares at the ceiling, gapes up at the electric yellow tiles. Buzz. Buzz. Runs his fingers through Mickey’s hair, arches his back, brings him closer. Closer. Not close enough.  
  
Mickey is nipping at the cord of Ian’s neck, he’s licking at his wet skin, moaning softly at the taste, gripping onto Ian’s thigh as he rolls his hips and Ian gasps. Digs his fingers into Mickey’s hair harder and pulls him away from his neck, stares into his eyes. Those blue fucking eyes. Blue, blue, blue. Mickey’s mouth is hanging open, pink lips spit shined and full. Sweat drips down his forehead, dark hair sticks to his skin. The light from the window makes it look like he’s fucking glowing. Ethereal.  
  
“I need you,” Ian whines, whines so fucking loud, pulls on Mickey’s hair, scratches at his skin. Because he does, he needs Mickey. In more ways than one. In more ways than _this_. “I need you so bad.”  
  
Mickey grins, flirtatious, confident. Oh, God. “Need me how, huh? Whaddya need tough guy?” he asks, grinds against Ian again. Again. Again.  
  
Ian moans. He can’t fucking speak. His mouth is dry, so dry. What does he need? He needs Mickey. He needs Mickey inside of him, deep, slow, fucking _hard_. Filling him up. Stretching him out. Owning him. He _needs_ it.  
  
He must have said that out loud because Mickey groans and dives down for a kiss, immediately covers Ian’s lips, sweeps his tongue out. Tasting. Searching. And Ian is there to find him, to guide him. Ian sighs, deflates against the mattress, holds Mickey tighter to his chest as they kiss and kiss and kiss and Ian can breathe just fucking fine.    
  
They kiss deep. They kiss hard. They kiss for a long fucking time and Ian remembers the days when they didn’t have this. Remembers when Mickey would never fucking allow it and he wonders how he survived. How he survived without his taste. His oxygen. He was so much stronger back then. He’s weak now, he’s fucking weak and Mickey is holding him up. His pillar. He can feel himself floating away, but Mickey holds him down. His anchor. Safe. _Safe_.  
  
Ian digs his heel into Mickey’s ass, arches up against him, moans into his mouth. He pulls away, barely, just enough to whisper a plea, just enough to whisper “I need you.” His words tremble despite their truth.  
  
“Okay, okay,” Mickey placates. “Stay here,” he says. And suddenly he’s gone and Ian can’t fucking breathe anymore. He shivers, feels freezing cold despite the July heat smothering everything it touches.  
  
“Mickey,” he says, reaching, scared. Buzz. Buzz.  
  
“Shh,” Mickey says, “shh,” and his voice sounds so fucking far away even though he’s in the same room.  
  
But he’s back. He’s back on top of Ian, breathing into him and Ian reaches for him like he hasn’t seem him in years. Decades. Centuries. And he’s burning up again. Burning with need. Just fucking _burning_. And Mickey’s whispering for him to turn over, his voice demanding in Ian’s ear, his fingers begging on Ian’s shoulder.  
  
Ian groans, he groans and turns over, shoves his face into the pillow, stifles his cries. Mickey hovers over him, runs his palms down Ian’s back, down his arms, squeezes his hands before he lowers himself completely. His cock is hot and hard against Ian’s ass, his chest beating against Ian’s back.  
  
Mickey kisses the back of Ian’s neck, swirls his tongue down and down and down and Ian cries out as Mickey rubs against him, pushes between his cheeks. He’s so close, he’s so fucking close and not close enough. Mickey’s leaking, Ian can fucking feel it. Sticky. So fucking sticky.    
  
Ian pushes his ass up, rubs against Mickey. _I want this, I want you._ And Mickey sighs, sighs against his blazing hot skin, breath moist and hot, sending a tremor down Ian’s spine. He sucks on the back of Ian’s neck, sucks and sucks, marking his fucking territory and Ian let’s him. He whines against the pillow and he let’s him. He hears that telltale click, knows that click well, and his body tenses up in anticipation, fingers grip onto the sheets.  
  
“You gotta relax,” Mickey urges, rubs the pads of his fingers against Ian’s waiting hole. Wet. Slick. He kisses the back of Ian’s neck again, once, twice, three times. Drags his teeth down his humid skin and Ian promptly becomes boneless, the tension bleeding away.  
  
“That’s it,” Mickey whispers soft, so soft, “you ready?”  
  
Ian nods his head, nods his head fast and hard, clutches onto the pillow again and Mickey chuckles against his neck. Pleased with Ian’s eagerness. Pleased with _Ian_.  
  
And then Mickey is pushing his finger inside and Ian hisses, bites down on his lip and hisses through his teeth. It burns. It burns so good and he’s not used to this at all but it feels so _normal_. So fucking right. Mickey’s going slow, taking his time, pulling in and out, in and out, slow and steady, just that one fucking finger.  
  
But Ian doesn’t want slow, not anymore. He did a few minutes ago. But now he wants it fast, he wants it fast and hard. Buzz. Buzz.  
  
“More,” Ian says with a gasp, pushes his ass against Mickey’s hand.  
  
“Patience,” is the only thing Mickey says back, still dragging his finger in and out, in and out. Slow. Slow.  
  
Ian groans in annoyance, but accepts it. Let’s Mickey set the pace, let’s Mickey do whatever the fuck he wants because it’s _Mickey_. And Mickey feels so good, just that one fucking finger has Ian’s body tingling, all his nerve endings sparking to life. He pushes back against Mickey’s hand, pushes and pushes and pushes. Wants him deeper. Wants _more_. It’s not enough, it never will be enough. Not with Mickey.  
  
And then Mickey is pushing in a second finger and Ian cries out, can’t fucking help himself. Mickey laughs, dark and flirty, drags his fingers in and out, in and out. Spreads them wide, stretches Ian open, rubs and rubs. Ian’s so loud already. He’s moaning so fucking loud, his voice floating out the window and anyone on the street can hear him. Can hear his loud whines and erotic moans. Can hear him screaming out for Mickey. Mickey. Mickey.  
  
But he doesn’t care, he doesn’t fucking care because Mickey can hear him. Oh, God can Mickey hear him. Mickey could always fucking hear him even when no one else could.  
  
“I’m ready,” he whines, “please Mickey, I’m ready.”  
  
Mickey drags his lips down Ian’s neck, sucks up the sweat beading there, moans lowly against his skin, rubs his dick against Ian’s leg. “Almost,” he whispers, smirks, like he’s enjoying this torture.  
  
It’s a constant cycle of thrust, rub, spread, and Ian is losing his goddamn mind. And when Mickey hits _that_ spot, oh God, Ian feels like he’s going to combust. He moans, moans fucking loud, pushes against Mickey’s hand, rubs his dick on the coarse sheets. He’s ready, he’s fucking ready.  
  
Mickey laughs again, breathy, fucking hot, says “okay, okay,” and pulls his fingers out and backs away. Ian’s skin breaks out in goosebumps at the loss of Mickey’s warmth. At the promise of something _more_.  
  
He hears a crinkling and his heart deflates. He knows they should, he fucking knows, but he doesn’t want to. He only wants Mickey. Just fucking Mickey. But he _knows_. He knows even if Mickey doesn’t. He screws his eyes up and tries to stop that train of thought. Tries to stop his mind from derailing to bathrooms and alley’s and sleazy hotel rooms. To people who weren’t Mickey. To people who could _never_ fucking be Mickey. Buzz. Buzz.  
  
“Turn over,” Mickey says, says it deep and authoritative and Ian is back, back in his own head, in his own body. He’s back here. Now. Back on this fucking shitty mattress with Mickey. Only Mickey. He does what he is told, flips over and moans at the sight of Mickey stroking his hard fucking cock and biting his lip. He’s gorgeous, he’s so fucking gorgeous and Ian is fucking _ready_.  
  
Mickey lowers himself against Ian, keeps stroking his dick, stoking the fucking fire. He breathes into Ian, breathes fucking hot coals and lava into his lungs and Ian can still breathe just fucking fine. Ian’s hands burn up Mickey’s back, slide easily against the sweat slicked skin, and pull him in deeper, deeper. Needs his lips on him forever, needs his tongue sweeping into his mouth until he dies. He _needs_.  
  
And then Mickey is pushing inside him. Oh, God, he’s filling Ian up just like he wanted and it feels so fucking good. So fucking perfect. He’s perfect, Mickey is fucking perfect and Ian feels like he might cry. Fuck. He shivers, his back bows as he moans into Mickey’s mouth, blows ash and cinder onto this beautiful mans tongue.  
  
“That’s it,” Mickey says, “just like that,” he guides, his voice trembling as he seats fully inside of Ian and Ian wonders how he hasn’t fully combusted into flames. His skin is on fire, Mickey’s presence poking the coals, igniting the inferno.  
  
He knows he should wait, wait until the sting subsides but he doesn’t fucking care. “Move,” he begs, tightens his legs around Mickey’s waist. When did he do that? When did his legs get there? He doesn’t care, doesn’t fucking care because Mickey is moving. Moving deep. Moving hard. Moving with a purpose and his eyes are so fucking blue. Blue, blue, blue.  
  
Mickey is thick. He’s thick and long and hard and so fucking deep. Mickey feels so _fucking_ good. Pulsing. Pulsing. And Ian can’t stop himself from clawing his nails down his back, from pulling at his hair, from screaming at the ceiling. Buzz. Buzz. Mickey’s the only one that does this, the only fucking one that gets to unravel Ian like this. They’re so fucking sweaty and slick, so slick, their bodies moving together with a practiced ease. The springs squeak, the frame scrapes the hardwood. Ian’s body sings, sings out for Mickey.  
  
Mickey pushes and pushes and pushes, his hips snapping forward with an urgency. He moans, moans out loud and his voice mingles with Ian’s to float out the window and disappear into the dense Chicago summer night.  
  
“Mickey,” Ian whines. “Mickey,” he begs, his body arching closer to him. Closer. Magnets. Motherfucking magnets.  
  
“You feel so good, so fuckin’ good,” Mickey slurs, pushes into Ian faster, pushes against that spot and Ian yells. Pushes and pushes and Ian is seeing fucking stars behind his eyelids. His mouth is dry, so dry. He can’t close it. His jaw permanently open in a silent moan as the butterflies fly out of his stomach and flutter through his teeth.  
  
He digs his heels in deeper, pushes Mickey closer and closer, never close enough. He’s so full, so full of _Mickey_ and his body fucking aches for more. They’re so fucking sweaty and slick, so slick, their skin making music as it rubs together. Pushing. Pulsing. And everything is so fucking _easy_ , everything is so easy with Mickey. Even _this_. Even Ian giving himself over to him completely is so fucking easy and it feels like he’s going to combust.  
  
Mickey is frenzied with his thrusts, moving fast and hard and Ian dances closer and closer as Mickey pushes against that spot, fucking pushes and pushes and Ian feels like he’s choking until Mickey’s lips land on his again and he can breathe just fucking fine.  
  
He bites at Mickey’s lips, swipes against his tongue, taps against his teeth, pulls at his hair and he can’t get enough. He needs more. More of Mickey. But he doesn’t know how much more Mickey can give him. He’s already given him everything. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Buzz. Buzz.  
  
Mickey thrusts hard. He thrusts hard and fast and Ian is left wondering why he doesn’t let Mickey do this _more._ He’s stretched so fucking wide, slick. So slick. So fucking good.  
  
Oh, God. He’s gonna come. He’s gonna fucking come.  
  
And Mickey is laughing against his throat, biting at his skin. Whispers, “me too.” Whispers, “you first,” and wraps his calloused hand around Ian’s dick and Ian’s heart stops. Mickey pulls and pulls, fast. Faster. Just the way Ian likes, just the way he _needs_. He fits so perfectly in Mickey’s hand, around Mickey’s dick.  
  
Mickey pushes and pushes. Pulsing. Pulling. Buzz fucking buzz. And Ian is moaning, moaning so loud and spilling over his stomach and chest in quick, hot bursts. Mickey does that. Mickey is the _only_ one that does that. His body tingles all over, his hole clenching down on Mickey rhythmically, encouraging him to let go. Fucking...just, let _go_.  
  
He does, he moans low into Ian’s sweaty fucking neck, shivers as he releases and Ian is missing that sticky hotness that _should_ be inside of him, that should be filling him up and he fucking hates himself because it’s not. But it’s warm, it’s fucking warm and that’s enough, he supposes. Not everything can be fire.  
  
But Mickey? Mickey is fucking fire. Always has been. Always will be.  
  
He’s breathing so loud, so fucking loud but he’s not done. He grabs onto Mickey’s face, pulls him in for a deep kiss. Pulls and pulls and Mickey fucking gives and gives, pushing softly into Ian still and Ian could fucking go again right now. He could. He really could. His nails scratch up Mickey’s back, hold him closely by the back of the neck as he continues to unravel, continues to turn to dust underneath those soft fucking hands and smiling lips.  
  
Mickey pulls out and Ian feels so fucking empty. He keeps his eyes closed, refuses to look at the bright yellow ceiling instead of those blue eyes. Blue, blue, blue. He hears the wet slap of the condom on the hardwood, feels the soft, warm heat of Mickey pressing up against his side, pulling him closer, kissing on his neck, mumbling against his skin. Mumbling praises and jokes. Mumbling, “gimme a few minutes then it’s my turn.”  
  
But Ian can’t hear him because his skin is still fucking buzzing, his mind still running, his body still floating. Floating far, far away. But Mickey is right fucking there, right fucking next to him and he isn’t going anywhere. His anchor. His pillar. What the _fuck_ is he doing?  
  
Oh, God.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry! The epilogue to Casanova is coming!! I just needed a quick break!  
> [xoxo](http://damnnmilkovich.tumblr.com/)


End file.
